


Beast you've made

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Punching out my dancelines [15]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Athlete/Coach Relationship, Big Strong Men, Big Strong Tears, Big Terrible Coping Mechanisms, Break Up, But We're Sad About Them, DWMP verse, Even While We're Turned On, Hence Sad Mastrubation, Kid Detective Curufin, M/M, Self-Destruction, Self-Loathing, Sexy flashbacks, no one is good at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8758633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: In October of Celegorm’s senior year, Oromë ended their affair. Celegorm took it in stride.
(He did not take it in stride.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this expansion to [the flashbacks in DWMP ch. 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2106315/chapters/4647924) ages ago to make myself miserable, but never shared it because I thought it was too indulgently angsty. Then I was informed that others wanted to be miserable too, so the fact that this overwrought mess is public is their fault. Not to name names, but it was thegreatpumpkin and belegsghost. 
> 
> Anyway, here’s my id, it’s powerful men crying a lot and having sad sexy memories.

He considered skipping practice, but his pride wouldn’t let him.

(The part of him that had awoken to the ever-present caution over getting caught for the past six months whispered, _And people would notice. People would know it was out of character._ )

So he went to practice, his knuckles bandaged, and had immediately wished he’d thought to get drunk first.

“What happened to your hand, Fëanorion?” Glorfindel peered curiously at him as they changed in the locker-room, and Celegorm flexed his fingers and made himself grin.

“Got drunk and punched a window,” he said. “Thought it would be cool, like in the movies. Didn’t feel a thing ‘til the next morning.”

Glorfindel laughed. “Typical Beast,” he said, shaking his head. “Coach isn’t gonna be happy you bust up your hands, though.”

Something cold and twisting settled in Celegorm’s stomach. “Naw,” he agreed, and self-consciously curled his fingers into his palms. “He won’t be.”

He tried hard not to look at Oromë when they filed onto the field, but he couldn’t escape that voice, and he couldn’t avoid when the drill circuit brought him close to his coach. Oromë looked no different than he ever did; implacably calm, his expression not flickering, his voice unfaltering, but Celegorm wanted to scream and break things and tear his own skin off. _They were so close, so close he could almost feel the heat of Oromë’s skin; so close to those hands; so close to those arms; so close to the rolling, thunderous voice that could soften so tenderly when he held Celegorm and called him –_

“On your feet, Fëanorion,” said Oromë, and Celegorm felt the air leave him like he’d been hit. He rolled up from where he’d been prone, doing sit-ups far past when Oromë had called the end of the circuit. He refused to raise his head and meet Oromë’s gaze so he slouched across the field to run sprints with Glorfindel, and tried not to notice if Oromë’s eyes were on him.

 

Then he went home and drank.

 

The house was empty, and part of Celegorm was glad. He wandered from room to room, swigging straight from the bottle of vodka Maglor had been keeping in the kitchen, half itching for company and half pleased no one could see him like this. But being alone crawled under his skin and vexed his every nerve, and he craved company as much as he knew he would reject it if offered. He crawled into bed and pressed his back to the pillows, wanting touch so badly that the space under his sternum ached with it. He dragged blankets around his shoulders and closed his eyes and –

_\- he was in Oromë’s room, hearing the tick of the grandfather clock, the breaths of the dog sleeping at the foot of the bed, and he was heavy and languorous with pleasure, curled against Oromë’s side, and Oromë was naked and warm and breathing inaudible words against Celegorm’s neck, his fingers tracing through the sweat on Celegorm’s skin, and Celegorm was so happy he felt he might die of it, especially when Oromë made no motions to getting up or putting on clothes or murmuring about the need for Celegorm to leave; Oromë was holding him, nuzzling into his hair, his fingers pressing against Celegorm’s hips, and this was it, this was everything –_

Celegorm wrenched his eyes open, gagging on the sob that was closing his throat. His cheeks were wet and he wiped at them furiously, so angry he wanted to hurt something, anything.

He was so lonely he burned.

He thought of calling Aredhel, who would drink with him, who would fuck him, who would talk to him and listen and yell at him if need be, but he ruled it out almost as soon as it occured to him. There was no way he could go to Aredhel in this state and have her not ask questions. She would know at once that something was wrong, and he wasn’t strong enough to lie to her right now.

His fingers shaking, he dialed a number.

-

Curufin answered his phone on the second ring. “Yes,” he said shortly, his eyes still on the computer screen.

“Hey.” The voice on the other end was rough and slurred, and Curufin tore his eyes away from his screen and frowned.

“Tyelko?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothin’. What’re you up to, kid?”

“Working on my college applications, of course.” But Curufin rested his elbow on his desk and leaned his head against his hand, still frowning. “Why are you calling?”

“Jus’ wanted someone to talk to.”

“You sound terrible.”

Celegorm laughed, and the furrow between Curufin’s eyebrows deepened. “I'm fine. I mean, no, ‘m not. But it’s okay.”

Curufin tapped his fingers on the desk. “Are you alone?”

Celegorm’s laugh went ragged. “Oh yeah.”

“I’m coming over.”

“No.” Celegorm suddenly sounded clearer again. “No, you can’t. You shouldn’t be on the road, and Mom and Dad – ”

“I have my license now,” said Curufin briskly. “And if you don’t think I can convince dad to let me borrow the car, you haven’t been paying attention over the past seventeen years.”

“Curvo – ”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

-

Curufin parked at the curb – or rather, on the curb, parking not being his forte – hauled on the e-brake, and got out of the car. Locking it conscientiously, he hurried up the walk and into the slumping Victorian where his brothers lived. The first floor was dark, and he made his way up the stairs to where a crack of light was coming from Celegorm’s room. He pushed through without knocking and then pulled up short, his nose wrinkling.

Celegorm was sitting on his bed, shirtless and in sweatpants, a blanket half pulled around his shoulders. His eyes were red rimmed and his short hair was a mess, standing up all over his head.

Curufin put the back of his hand to his nose, his eyes still traveling around the room to suss out clues to his brother's state. “Have you been smoking?”

“Yeah,” said Celegorm. “Hey, Curvo, you got here quick.”

“You’ve been drinking, too.”

Celegorm grinned. “Just one vice wasn’t doin’ the trick.”

Curufin picked his way across the room, noting a wad of bloody bandaids in the waste basket, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Moryo says you shouldn’t mix the two.”

“Moryo doesn’t know how to get properly fucked up.” Celegorm focused on Curufin. “Curvo,” his voice softened, and there was a fragile edge to it, “you shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t’ve.”

“Hush, it’s okay.” Curufin settled against the headboard next to his brother and Celegorm folded forward onto his shoulder. Given the circumstances, Curufin didn't stop him. “What one earth is going on?”

“Nothin’.”

“You’re a mess, Tyelko, tell me.”

“I can’t.” Celegorm took a shuddering breath. “I really can't. But, god, Curvo, I don’t know how I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Go every day… have to see…” Celegorm’s voice cracked, and Curufin shivered at the rough sound that came from his brother. He sounded like he might cry, like he had already been crying, and the notion was as frightening as it was unusual. “ _God_.”

“Tyelko,” said Curufin, touching Celegorm’s hair like Celegorm sometimes touched his when he was scared or upset. “Please tell me.”

Celegorm wasn't listening, or couldn't hear. He was shaking his head where it rested against Curufin's shoulder, and his voice came out muffled, like there was something blocking his mouth. “ ‘m such an idiot. Of course he wouldn’t want… It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Wasn’ supposed to be a big deal, right? Why does it… Why does it…”

“Why does it what?”

“Why does it hurt so much?” Celegorm shuddered all over and made an ugly noise into Curufin’s shoulder. Curufin jerked, but stilled himself, reaching blindly for Celegorm's hand. “Shit, Curvo. I can’t d-do this.” Celegorm was crying in earnest now, his tears soaking through Curufin’s shirt, and Curufin was utterly at a loss.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said, knowing it sounded as hollow as it felt. “Tyelkormo – ” He broke off as Celegorm visibly flinched, his body spasming like he was going to be sick. "Do you need - "

“He won’t call me by my name anymore,” rasped Celegorm. “I can’t stand it.” He raised his face, swollen and blotchy and looking as distressed and confused as Curufin felt. “ ‘m worried ’m gonna do something bad.”

“No,” said Curufin, finding Celegorm’s hand and holding onto it, refusing to let his own terror at these words show. “No, you’re not, because you called me instead, and that was the right thing, okay?”

Celegorm stared at him, and then he blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “Oh Jesus,” he muttered. “I called you. You came over.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s _not_.” Celegorm scrubbed at his face. “Fuck. Listen, I shouldn’t have done that. I’m fine, you hear? You should go home.”

“You are obviously lying.”

“Curvo,” said Celegorm forcefully. “You don’t need to deal with my bullshit, I’m just wasted and being a fuckin’ idiot. Go home.”

“No.” Curufin glared at him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“ _I can’t._ ”

Curufin gritted his teeth and grabbed his brother by the shoulders, wanting to shake him. But Celegorm looked like he was going to fall apart again, so instead Curufin tried to pull him into his arms. It was awkward, Curufin not having much practice at hugs, but he persisted. Celegorm resisted his embrace at first but then bowed forward, his head dropping against Curufin’s narrow chest. His shoulders, for all their breadth, looked vulnerable.

“What do I do now?” he whispered. "What do I do?"

“I – ” Curufin touched Celegorm’s hair again. He had never felt more helpless or uncertain, and he longed, suddenly and embarrassingly, for his father. “I’m not sure. But when I am upset, I know that I need something else to take my mind away from it. You need… You need distraction." He lit on the idea without realizing it, and then grabbed hold of it in relief. "Yes. You need distraction from whatever… whatever is going wrong. Then it will be okay. I promise.” He whispered the last two words once more, trying to make them believable, trying to make them true. 

But Celegorm didn’t raise his head or respond, and Curufin didn’t leave until he had fallen asleep.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Lúthien Tinuviel transferred into Celegorm’s English class. As he watched her through a pounding headache, her waist length black hair falling over her shoulder as she slid her chair in next to his, something clicked.

_Distraction._

He didn’t stop watching her. And when she glanced up and smiled briefly at him, he found something almost as good as getting drunk.

 

* * *

 

Oromë didn’t drink anymore, so he punished himself instead.

 

He moved restlessly through the house, Nahar watching him anxiously, whining when Oromë wouldn’t sit down or turn out the lights.

He couldn’t get the way Celegorm had looked at him out of his head.

Celegorm’s fury the night he had ended things had been bad enough, with his rage and pain and confusion and the blood he’d left on the tiles… Oromë hadn’t figured that seeing Celegorm at practice would be even worse than that night, because he hadn’t thought anything could be worse than that night.

But when he'd seen that bright head bowed and the sullen look on Celegorm’s face as he ducked his head and refused to look at him, Oromë had thought his heart would tear itself free of his chest and betray him after all. Unmanned by the pain of it, he’d pulled his armor close, kept his voice steady and unchanging, and refused to let himself watch Celegorm like he usually would. And when he’d had to speak to him – of course he had to, he was the boy’s coach, he couldn’t just stop speaking to him – he couldn’t bring himself to speak the syllables he’d grown to hold with such tenderness on his tongue.

“Fëanorion,” he’d said instead, and pretended not to notice that Celegorm had jerked like he’d been struck.

And then he’d gone home and hadn’t let himself stop moving. He paced the circumference of his house, cataloguing every place, every memory.

_Here, I kissed him for the first time._

_Here, he looked at me and I knew._

He ran his fingers over the wall, remembering Celegorm pressed up against it, laughing and wicked and urging him on. He wrapped his hands over the back of the couch, remembering the nights Celegorm had spent on it, the times he had pulled Oromë down onto it with him. He remembered Celegorm’s breathless murmurs, the way Celegorm would spit careless filth but touch him like reverence.

_Oromë_ , Celegorm had gasped, bent over the counter, here, because he always spoke Oromë’s name at the end, and Oromë hated that he knew this. He hated remembering how it had taken every ounce of Oromë’s control in that moment, that night, not to bend over Celegorm’s back and murmur in his ear as he came, _Tyelkormo,_ mine,  _how I –_

But he's not. He's not yours.

How stupid I am, Oromë thought, and leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. How stupid I am, to let it go so long. To let it start in the first place.

How stupid I am, to have fallen in love with him.

But imagine how much worse it would have been had he known.

So he paced the house, forcing himself into the artifacts of memory, each place he'd had Celegorm, each place Celegorm had whispered his name and grinned that wicked grin and made him feel so alive; burned his guilt and his grief into every footstep and dug the knotted rope of memory into his shoulders.

You idiot, to have so hurt the one thing you have loved like this.

You deserve this pain.

He realized at some point that he had all the lights in the house on, and it was well past midnight. Thinking of the neighbors and what they might think of him roaming the house restlessly through the night, he switched them off, and in the darkness he finally stilled. He had worried about the neighbors before, at times when Celegorm was over and he forgot to draw the curtains or was too distracted to think to turn the lights off. Had his neighbors seen the boy, sprawled half naked and insouciant and laughing on his couch; had they seen the boy curled in his lap or pressed against his chest or standing before him, arms folded, challenging him?

When Oromë finally made himself go to bed, he should have known that he would dream of Celegorm. It was a cruelly arousing dream, and he woke sweating and hard and the moment he opened his eyes he remembered everything and hurt all over again. He brought himself off anyway and loathed himself for it.

He remembered nights that last summer, when he’d left his door open so that he could hear Celegorm down the hall and Celegorm knew it. And some nights Celegorm would tease him by kicking the blankets free of himself and lying there naked, touching himself, and all that Oromë could hear were his soft breaths and gasps and the occasional low moan or inaudible word, and he would lie there and smile ruefully at the ceiling and know he was being played. But he’d touch himself anyway, to the sound of Celegorm’s breaths, and sometimes that would be enough for both of them. And sometimes it wasn’t enough, and he’d throw back his own blankets and go on silent feet down the hall, and Celegorm would be there on the couch, naked, and he’d open his eyes when he felt Oromë over him and in the space before his triumphant smile, Oromë would be crouching over him, taking him between his hands and folding him up, kissing him until Celegorm begged.

He let the memories hit him, assault him, punish him, and relived every one for the pain and the loss so that he could catalogue all the ways in which he had failed.

-

He went to practice the next day, and did not flinch to see the dark circles under Celegorm’s eyes. He went to practice the day after, and the day after that, until he was numb enough to speak to Celegorm like he spoke to the others and did not crack open when he did, numb enough not break when Celegorm responded dully, coldly, and nor did he flinch when he heard that Celegorm was seeing someone, a girl, a beauty, and he saw her on the sidelines some days, watching Celegorm with an arrested look in her eyes.

He did not flinch, he did not break, and the next time he touched Celegorm was in the ambulance when Celegorm was delirious with pain and clutched at him without knowing who he was, and then Oromë did break, because somehow, in some way, this was his doing too.

**Author's Note:**

> [Howl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZweDwbJ_Ic) is a Celegorm/Oromë song, get out of my house


End file.
